USA > New York > Onondaga County > Syracuse > Sixty-odd, a personal history > Part 30
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In August I got away for a few days, with Lucy Watson, who had been with us in all our family gatherings at the time of Father's death. We belonged to the Companionship of the Holy Cross, an association which met each year for conference at Adelynrood, an old house near Newburyport overlooking the green marshlands, with the sea beyond.
Then in September I came back refreshed to my houseful of girls. There were new ones with me every year; I took them for only their freshman and sophomore years, and they went to the campus as juniors. For our immediate family there came changes and promotion. Roger went away next autumn; his capacity had carried him beyond the age of the children in our little private school, and we felt he could advance better among boys and men. We had not realized, however, that a child who is more or less precocious and uneven in development cannot be thrust into a crowd of average youngsters, without some of the martyrdom of the misfit. He came home at Christmas time a bundle of nervous terrors, and we felt we must find a new school at once, where a moderate, sympathetic headmaster would handle those fears by quietly carrying confidence with him. I was in the mood to beg my small son's forgiveness for the mistake we had made, and felt that we could never make adequate reparation for that
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great blunder. But we found the best possible conditions in the Campbell school at Essex Fells, New Jersey, whose principal com- bined the very qualities we sought. Meantime Nan, who had been sent to boarding-school so that her equipment for college might not be too heavily permeated with experience of the Life, begged to spend her last year of preparation in Northampton, and was willing to bargain for that by taking a room at the house of our neighbor Mrs. Bridgman, and coming to the old house only for meals. Her town connections kept her successfully out of the college sphere, so that she could enter the class of 1909, with the proper freshman attitude and no sophisticated notions. Sixteen was too young for that, as we all realized later; but since she obtained high rating in examinations, there seemed no object in keeping her back.
The next years passed calmly and life at "109," went on without perceptible changes, though a quiet progress continued and from time to time one noted an increased academic enthusiasm. I recall the appearance of Everett Kimball on the faculty, announced by a lively ebullition of argument among his pupils, manifest at our mealtime discussions. It was his delight to raise objections, to com- bat established theories and even principles, and shatter cherished traditions; exactly what was needed to revive their mental alertness, and make dry bones rattle. .
It seems to me as I look back that the nineteen-sevens and 'eights, and 'nines, while very "dressy" young women, wearing silk blouses and dangler-necklaces to their classes and pale-tinted fabrics to Sunday dinners, were none the less acquiring better habits of study and more interest in the real objectives of the college curriculum. They took their mid-years as desperately as ever, sitting up till all hours with wet-bandaged foreheads and drinking strong coffee, occa- sionally falling by the wayside, burdened with conditions.
In the winter of 1909 my mother died. To the very last she has kept her alertness, her reading of French and German, her church-going and interest in all manner of people and affairs. She was beloved by the little club of old ladies which had met in our neighborhood for years, and welcomed in younger circles as well,
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since her social gifts made her congenial with people of all ages. I had written her daily for the five years after our father's death, and my two sisters had cared for her devotedly, Arria having given up many civic connections in order to be more with her in the little house they had taken after the Bishop's death, while Molly had been always her close companion. Her passing left much to be settled at Forty Acres, which had been exclusively her property. None of the descendants could undertake the sole management of the place, nor could they have borne to see it pass to strangers after its long family history. It was finally arranged that the old house and its surrounding land should be left in the keeping of our brother's five sons and daughters, thus remaining a Huntington estate, and that my children and I should live on in the Phelps place, since this had been my Father's expectation in adding it to his property. My sisters retained a share of the land also; my brother added his portion to mine, to make it possible for me to start farm- ing, with my share of livestock and tools; some of the larger ma- chines were to be shared by our nephews and ourselves. My quota of livestock was five cows and two calves, and with my share of the money left to the estate, I built a small house for a manager, and made over the old barn, adapting it to hold a larger herd; then a married couple was settled there to take care of the place and make it earn its way by supplying our Northampton household with chickens and eggs and milk.
Our summers at the farm were busy times. We all worked; there was much to do in the fields and in the haying and corn-cutting, and I had the thrill of driving the mowing-machine now and then-an exhilarating experience on a dewy June morning-and sometimes the hay-rake on hotter afternoons when a bathing-suit, of the deco- rous pattern which we wore in those days, was the most comfortable costume. The boys helped our farmer. John had always been de- voted to the land, and we like to think that by inheritance he was fitted for tilling the soil as his ancestors had done and thereby earned their acres, which were never used for market speculation. When the question of private ownership of land was discussed, I had secretly indulged that thought, with a joy in possession which I
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felt must some day be sacrified, but which made our love for Forty Acres all the stronger. Roger preferred weeding to harvesting, and spent long mornings wielding a hoe between the rows of corn. He preferred that monotonous occupation because it left his brain free for musical conception; occasionally, however, he would slip away into the woods at the call of a bird, forgetting the implement and the task for too long a time.
Some summers I did the housework as well, giving my Nor- thampton maids a paid vacation and not always engaging a substi- tute. I liked to be up early with my people, slipping down into the kitchen at half-past five to start the breakfast biscuits, doing the morning chores with the stimulus of the coffee aroma. We were al- ways glad to have guests from the circle at the old house, or to give a waffle-party for younger visitors, cooking the waffles over the fire of shingles, which were replenished by armfuls brought in from the woodshed.
It was always hard to break from that life when the time came to go back to town, just as we were having frosty moonlight nights and long sunny days, hearing the clack of the silo-filler and seeing the great loads of tasselled corn come up from the meadows. I felt the rejoicing of the farmer over fruitful acres, and loved to plan the crops for the coming year. We were running a milk-route then, and I kept a waiting-list of the prospective customers, buying a new cow when a group warranted the purchase, and adding five or six names at a time. John ran the route successfully, and I occasion- ally went along on the little truck, to familiarize myself with its demands.
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By the spring of 1910 a need for expansion had developed at Northampton. The Henshaw house could not accommodate the number of students who were now applying for admission; my waiting-list was large, and we needed a substantial addition. Our friend Mr. Huxley, who justified his inheritance of the great scien- tist's name in being a supremely intelligent builder, and whose understanding and human insight made him the most helpful of planners, worked out a design for enlarging the old building with- out disturbing its proportions unduly, copying measurements and patterns of woodwork, and getting round the old chimneys and massive beams with a tact that saved new changes from being innovations. Sixteen rooms and a number of bathrooms were added at the back, and on the ground floor, beyond the dining-room, a good-sized recreation-hall with a wide fireplace at one end and a long window at the other; a broad staircase ascended at one side, and a door opened on the old verandah; the ceiling was studded with little lights which were not obtrusive in the daytime, but converted the place into a ballroom at night. It was dubbed the Hilarium, and became a gathering-place for all kinds of groups, from Sunday night suppers to Hallowe'en hunters.
The year 1910 was memorable for many reasons, especially in the college. Its long-loved President retired that year, after thirty- five years of service; and though we were still to have him in Nor- thampton as a citizen and friend, the departure left a very sad and apprehensive atmosphere among the directors. A mourning fac- ulty and student body, not to speak of the hundreds of alumnae, realized that there was more than personal loss to be considered.
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He stood for that which was strong and abiding in the movement for the higher education of women; had conserved the best tradi- tions and principles, fought unswervingly for the validity of the old faiths; and kept to a safe course with a scorn of experiments and superficialities. Not only had he built firm foundations, but a pro- gressive, economical system of housing and provision for an an- nually increased body of students, and a combination of discipline with democracy which kept the morale of that body at a high level. But with his going, many certainties seemed now doomed to be swept away. That which was new would come in through the door that closed after him. The realization of this inevitable change was in the minds of the trustees when they met to consider the next step. When the public, which for us in Northampton represented our own corner-of-New England conservatism, learned that they had decided upon a drastic departure and were preparing to bring a gifted and liberal young man from the west to undertake the office, anxious surmise attacked the community. Looking back on my own experience as a child, I could not but feel that the change from eastern to western leadership might open up new paths for the college, and enrich its life. Yet on the opening day the students, for all their eager anticipation, were somewhat sobered. "We missed even the long prayer," some of them said. Marion Leroy Burton was a person strikingly different from his predecessor, but he came into his place without display of any sort and was wel- comed by town and gown, as was his pleasant wife. They had been lovers when fellow-students at a co-educational college, which per- haps made them interesting as individuals to the students. They affiliated themselves with the Congregational church, and fitted excellently into the social life of the community as well as the cam- pus. From my own observation I felt this an auspicious beginning. One did not at once observe many signs of change in the general attitude of the faculty or student body; the girls took kindly to their new president and fell in with his wishes as they developed.
My own children were making some departures from earlier plans. Nan was graduating from Radcliffe, not from Smith; it had seemed wise to let her have part of her college experience away
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from home, and spend some time in Cambridge where she lived for two years with Professor and Mrs. Emerton, and later with Mrs. Cooke, the "Aunt Mary" of my Boston days. Her aunt, Ade- line Sessions, gave her as a graduation present, a trip to Europe, where she went in 1910. She was then just the same age that I was when I had been there more than twenty years before, and my youthful excitement at meeting Celia Thaxter in England was matched by a larger group which the broadened interests and con- tacts of our family could offer Nan. Her letters brought glowing accounts of friends whom she met through her father's previous visit there, and Romanes (then the outstanding scientist whose faith in the Christian religion had held against the doubts and denials of many of his colleagues) to whom she was introduced through his friendship with my brother James, after one of his visits there. She visited the Rookes, whose daughter had been for many years on the faculty at Smith College. At a Suffrage meeting at Queens Hall, she met the Pankhursts who had recently influenced our own ideas on suffrage. In Switzerland she studied both French and German at the house of a charming French family on Lake Thun. All these things and more served to prepare her for her next year of teaching, and the welfare work upon which she subse- quently entered.
We read Nan's letters together at the little cabin which had been built for my sisters on the top of a hill between Amherst and Forty Acres. Father had given them the wood-lot, with its view of the mountains and the river valley. They were supremely happy there, studying the birds, the butterflies and ferns. Cousin Ellen had sent a little Christmas sketch of that view from the front of the house, as one looked westward across the blue, undulating horizon-wall of hills-a bit of sandy road, with a fence long since gone, and a few dull-green-and-brown sweetfern bushes beside it in the fore- ground. Underneath it she had painted, "Denn so das Klarheit hatte, das da aufhöret, vielmehr wird das Klarheit haben, das da bleibet." 2 Cor. 3.11, which is even nicer than the English transla- tion by Moffat: "If what faded had its glory, then what lasts will be invested with far greater glory." I think that the fadelessness of
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those eternal hills will never be any more clear to those who come after them, than it was to Arria and Molly.
Roger entered Harvard in the fall of 1911; at fourteen he was large and strong, with the appearance of a sixteen-year-old. But he was mortally afraid of being recognized for the youngster he really was, and had a nervous terror of publicity. He and Nan, therefore, were quartered for two winters in a little apartment on Brattle Street, with an elderly maid to look after them. Roger had definitely decided on a musical career, and had written, two years before, a miniature opera scored quite correctly for an orchestra of twenty instruments. It was composed in the manner of Wagner, and con- tained various motives. He named it Lancelot and Elaine; I recol- lect that he had made the Guinevere motive, as he told me with all the earnestness of a romantic twelve-year-old, the most attractive one of all but with less meaning, because, though very beautiful, she had no soul. He was never especially willing to play his pro- ductions, always asserting that he could hear them just as well with- out; and they were not taken with him to Harvard; he already felt them to be childish.
Vacations, short though they were, brought my husband back to the children and me. And now and then I went to New York for visits which he made especially gay, taking me to theatres and con- certs and attractive restaurants. He was amusingly adequate in the role of galant, looking as handsome in his evening clothes as when he had come from Harvard to escort me to the opera in years past. It was a source of deep happiness to us all to see how completely he had found his destined work at last. We went back to our tasks after these interludes with memories of moments when a chance touch had brought the old thrill, or a meeting of eyes betrayed some sud- den emotion, innig and nnexpressed, which gave us wordless assur- ance of fealty. In those slight mutual revelations there was a pledge renewed; a preservation of the spark which might have gone out under the pressure of an unremitting dual struggle with defeat. We reminded ourselves of that in our long intimate talks at the farm, when after the children's claims had been satisfied we found ourselves alone by the fire late at night or sat under the pines in the
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moonlight, discussing not only our affairs but the problems of a larger world, as we had always faced them together. We had given ourselves a holiday to go to Kent for Roger's gradnation-a satisfying experience and a joy to the boy himself, for both brothers felt the lack of paternal companionship, and were thankful to have their father share in any achievement.
Our college household gained, I think, from enlargement. It had reached a better capacity, and through greater numbers touched more interests and problems, some of which looked larger to the outside world than to ourselves. One question was asked by friends whose churchmanship was unqualified; What do you do about religion? I always felt that it put me on the defensive, for when I was obliged to answer, "Nothing; only just try to live it," they were apt to look puzzled and pained. It was such a wonderful opportunity said they, with a household of girls, at the inipression- able age, surrounded by temptations to forsake their parents' faith for the modern rationalistic outlook. Even the societies for Chris- tian work in the colleges, it was urged, were more or less limited by a spirit of so-called breadth which must be pervasive in an evan- gelical body representing many creeds.
I had to acknowledge that the typical college Sunday was any- thing but an ideal Sabbath devoted to rest and worship; it began with late breakfasts, went on into forenoons of shampooing and manicuring and letter-writing, dressy dinners and later a vesper service which was practically a sacred concert, with a short address from some outstanding denominational preacher. It was of no use' to stress the benign influence of beautiful organ-playing, nor to plead that after all many faithful young church-members slipped away to early services or visited other places of worship at the con- ventional hour; nor to suggest that my own regular church attend- ance might be an encouragement to the spirit of worship. These excuses, if such they were, did not exonerate me in the eyes of sun- dry splendid people who had a right to think me neglectful of my duties, but did not quite understand the deeper instinct which had kept me resolved to leave my college children's faith to the God I believed in.
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Little by little, however, since religion is itself an instinct in- herent in the fabric of individual life, however obscure its pattern, there developed an expression of it which is often recalled as a cherished bond of unity. On Sunday nights, a little while before "lights out" was signalled, the Hilarium was darkened, and I would play in the dark a very simple hymn, Baring-Gould's words set to Barnby's music; that often reminded me of the lessons Joseph Barnby had given us at Pontresina years before. The girls sat about on the floor or the stairs, the embers in the fireplace lighting their faces; one could kneel or not, as her impulse prompted, when we re- peated the Lord's prayer at the end of the hymn. Nobody knew, I think, what her fellow-worshipers were doing. In later years we came to say a little collect as well, about going deeper into the mys- teries of life and being interpreters of life to our fellows. Then came a long silence like the silences at a Quaker meeting. It was not im- posed upon us, but developed quite naturally because the worship- ers lingered, finding the stillness restful. I do not know that it was always used for formulated prayer, but I do know that in those mo- ments-and they were intense moments-there came into our midst a Presence which made the room a sanctuary, and hallowed our com- mon life. When at last we stirred, there was a surge of energy and a series of spontaneous goodnights. I never wanted to make that service a defense when accused of indifference to the religious train- ing of my "lambs." It only showed that their souls' good was in higher hands than those of their housemother!
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The quiet German people who had once taken me so confi- dently into their family life, were going about in black garments, acquiescing silently with the aggression of a mad government, and praying to a god of war to give its army victory. The marching armies which I had seen in Germany in 1881, suggested glory and might, but not bloodshed. At that moment of comparatively peace- ful Germany history, the German army had been pure pageantry, and the fear of destruction from it was not in our minds any more than the opposite fear that the Germany I had loved would be destroyed by its adversaries. But as the months went by, and Amer- ica was taking on the passions and hatreds of the conflict, even urged on by the Christian church, there was nothing for me to do but pin my faith to a possibility which I could not really be- lieve: that Wilson could hold America neutral.
I was in New York on the day when the news of the Lusitania disaster came. I think it reached America after the morning papers were printed, but the word spread with that appalling rapidity reserved for a national calamity. At once every human being seemed to know it; horror was written on the faces of hurrying business- men and women, truckdrivers, newsboys; voices calling, vehicles speeding, bulletins changed every few moments as dispatches brought fresh details. It crossed the United States on wires and flying trains and was caught up and carried into far village districts. For days reports kept coming; mourners multiplied; the bravery of officers and passengers on the sinking ship put heart into their fellow-inen at home. It would not have been possible to stem the tide of indignation, lust for revenge, pity, and challenged courage,
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that swept over the mass of American people. I think there were no doubts after that that we should enter the war, though a few kept up hope. It was no surprise, at all events, to a group which was standing in the hall of our house on a bright afternoon, when Roger came in with the first edition of the paper in his hand, and said in the quiet tone that always reminded me of his father, "I hate to tell you, Mother, but war is declared." And I remember saying solemnly, "That is the end of Wilson."
At once the country seemed to swing into action. Sight and sound testified to that; I heard the soft clicks of innumerable needles, and saw girls knitting, knitting, as they stood and sat and lounged and traveled, and the gray scarfs, the long stockings, the hanks of yarn; the flags, the bulletins, the buzz of voices in the Red Cross rooms; the boys in khaki.
I had hatred and horror of war in my blood, and my stubborn inind held inexorably to the belief that taking of life, whether organized or involuntary, was wrong; that one idea possessed it, and I made no attempt to dispel the convictions thousands of voices cried, that America had done right in going into the conflict; the Church quoted the sayings of Jesus Christ to prove that point. Patriots, older and younger, not only defended but lauded our fight for the honor of our country and championship of the nations attacked. They prayed for our army and our noble allies. My heart would not respond. I was not an absolutist; I could not take the ground that work for the soldiers of the hospitals was a support of war which involved the individual in its guilt. I could not see that disagreement with the military party, however intense one's feel- ings, absolved one from that duty toward the suffering. My friends were loyal and loving, but I worried them; they were terribly afraid that I might make some unguarded speech which would bring me into actual danger. But there was no fear of that, for I knew that my college children must be left free to follow in the path of duty as they saw it, and as their parents and brothers saw it. We did not discuss the matter, they and I, though they knew how I felt, with the instinct which our mutual confidence engendered. And they, too, were loyal, to the very core. So I did not get the
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martyrdom which, from the militant standpoint, I deserved, and was willing to endure. A few townspeople avoided me, sometimes crossing the street when they saw me coming. I had a government job, which meant going about to the stores and getting records of prices or something of that sort; my little horse and runabout was sent over from the farm, and I drove from store to store; a certificate which was sent me in acknowledgment of this service to my coun- try smote me with a sense of hypocrisy. What had I really done for that country, I said to myself. Not given my life for it; did I owe it that?
Roger had graduated from Harvard in 1915, and spent the next two years at the Yale Graduate School of Music. He was awarded the Steinert prize for an overture, delivered with great success and excellent comments at the Commencement concert, a number of critics coming from New York to hear it, and extra instruments hired for its performance. Meanwhile he had been asked to come to Smith college as an instructor in orchestration, and had gladly ac- cepted the position. He was known to have taken a pacifist stand, however. President Burton was told that just before the declara- tion of war he had, according to report in the newspapers, signed with four other men a telegram urging President Wilson not to de- clare it. It was reported that Mr. Burton said he fancied the young man would appreciate the need of being careful, or something of the sort. But from that time on he was more or less under suspicion, and the accusations against me for being "pro-German," as it was put, were occasionally strengthened by attacks on my children. I learned not to be surprised when told that my son was said to be a degenerate, a drunkard, and later a draft-dodger, when he had been rejected by the draft-board because of an eyesight-deficiency for which he had worn glasses since early boyhood. Those things were simply effects of war-hysteria, and I always asked not to be told who had reported the untruths.
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